Becoming the Detective
by rad-booty
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is not the average teenager, and clearly has some issues. He's not very well off until he discovers what people call "friends", and some others along the way.


**Part One: Observation.**

Sherlock woke with a start, coated with sweat. He threw off his blankets and sat upright, the alarm clock shining '4:06' in florescent light next to his large bed. He tugged his shirt away from his neck and looked about the messy room, but there was nothing new to see. The room was the same bleak, unorganised space it had always been. He curled his knees up to his chest and sighed, laying his face in the crook between them. He shut his eyes and just tried not to think. But his head spun to the point where he was almost dizzy with his strongest thoughts; his stomach ached and he trembled uncontrollably. All he wanted was for this to stop. He tried so hard, hugging his knees as tightly as possible and biting his bottom lip until it bled. But his thoughts wouldn't leave his mind. They were vivid. So very vivid. He could hear whispers and shouts, but none of them were ever real. After all, who would be speaking to him?

He crawled out of bed and over to the corner of the dark bedroom where he kept his schoolwork. He pressed his head against the cold drywall and suddenly stopped shaking. He held his hands against it as well as the whispering got louder and louder. Then he rammed his head strongly into it, over and over, the thumping echoing throughout the flat. For some reason that was all that seemed to soothe him. It worked every time. The voices faded as his thoughts slowed. He still felt sick, but much less so than before. "Why did that work?" He whispered to himself. Something he could never figure out, no matter how hard he thought about it.

The next morning Sherlock found himself exhausted. He hadn't fallen back asleep once he woke, and his stomach felt worse than it had before. None the less, he dragged himself to school. He shut his book bag in his small locker and headed across the hallway, holding his books and notebooks tightly to his ribs. A group of boys bumped him hard along the way, almost knocking him over. They snickered as he walked away, his head down. He ignored their taunting and headed into the classroom. It was full of people, all laughing, talking and whispering. Sherlock glanced over all of them, but otherwise paid no attention. He went directly to the back and sat at the lone desk in the corner. He pulled his books out and set them on his lap, in an effort to keep his head down. Then someone flicked the back of his head and he found himself surrounded by a group of snickering girls, all clad in gaudy over done outfits. They shouted awful things at him. He tried hard to ignore them but he just couldn't block them out. "You want to know something?" he asked quietly. "Of course! Tell us!" one of them screamed sarcastically. "That 'boyfriend' of yours is with another girl. You should watch your back a little better." The girl glared at him awfully, and he grinned up at her. "How do you know that?! How do you even know I have a boyfriend?!" she shouted. Sherlock said nothing. "I will get you for this." She said devilishly. "I will definitely get you for this."

Sherlock was walking quietly through the loud, bustling hallway and was approached by a burly senior boy wearing a muscle shirt. He stood directly in front of him. Sherlock was as tall as he was, but much lankier. The boy stepped closer to Sherlock; a little too close, in fact. "I heard what you said to my girlfriend." He said loudly,"You ready to take it back?" Sherlock shook his head. "No." the boy's brows furrowed. "Why not?" he said, his teeth clenched. "I won't take back what's true." Then suddenly, there was a throbbing pain on Sherlock's jaw as the other boy's fist slammed down onto it. Sherlock swung back, landing a decent punch on his nose, just as they were pulled apart by school security.

Sherlock knew that his bleeding jaw hurt a lot more than it should have. He was sick and he knew it, but there was nothing he could do about it. He held a blood coated tissue against it as he sat in the principal's office, waiting. A few moments later, the principal came in, a tall, thick woman with graying hair; someone Sherlock had seen many a time. "Sherlock Holmes…" She said scoldingly "Now what have you done this time?" Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on the window behind her. "It wasn't my fault." He said quietly. The woman sighed, "Well, you must have done something. Boys don't get in fights for no reason, Sherlock." Sherlock shook his head. "I get beat up every day. I don't think today should be of any concern in specific." The principal took off her glasses and sat them down atop the table. "The reason I'm concerned is because this is the twentieth time you've been here."

"I know." Said Sherlock, "Don't think I haven't been counting."

"Well," she said, "After your multiple incidents with Anderson, your downright rudeness to both teachers and students alike, and the multiple times you seem to have been in fights 'for no reason,' I'm seriously considering calling your parents." Sherlock just stared at her. "My parents are dead."

"Well surely you live with someone, Mr. Holmes."

"My brother."

"How old is he?"

"Eighteen."

"Is there a way I could contact him?' Sherlock took a scrap of paper from his notebook and wrote a number with 'MYCROFT' printed clearly above it. "Thank you. You may leave." She said simply. Sherlock grabbed his bag and slumped out of the room.

When he returned home, the phone was ringing loudly. He threw his bag carelessly onto the floor and answered without saying hello. "Sherlock!" Mycroft shouted through the line, "Why is the principal of your high school calling my work phone?! It's bloody annoying!" Sherlock smirked, "Oh stop complaining Mycrotch," He said. "Why did you give them my number?!"

"Because they asked for it." Then he hung up, and slowly made his way to his bedroom, sitting down in front of his desk. He picked up a blue pen and some paper and stared out the window, writing down everything he noticed about every person that passed by on the street below. By the time he crawled into bed he had twelve pages of sheer observation.

He woke again that night, but as he smashed his head into the wall he heard a subtle knocking noise. He headed out of the room to the door and glanced out of the peephole. Standing in the dimly lit hallway was a short, brown haired, middle aged woman with a look of concern upon her face. Sherlock unlocked the door and slowly opened it. "I'm sorry," the woman said, "But I live in the flat below and I couldn't help but notice the constant thumping coming from up here every single night!" Sherlock glanced at her, and then invited her into the sitting room. "That would be me." He said decisively. "Oh dear!" the woman shouted, "This place is appalling! Do you live here on your own young man?" Sherlock stared about the cluttered room, "No." he said. "Well, then where are your…"

"I live with my brother."

"Is he here?"

"Five day 'business trip.'" The woman stared at Sherlock as if she felt horribly sorry for him, then held out a hand. "I'm Mrs. Hudson." She said softly. "Sherlock Holmes." He said in return. Mrs. Hudson pushed back his messy hair and made a face at the large bruises on his forehead. "You've been hitting your head against the wall, that's what all the thumping was!" She said, her hands on her hips. Sherlock smiled. Was she really _concerned _for him? "Are you alright?"

She asked him. Sherlock didn't respond. "You look rather sick." Sherlock lifted his heavy head and looked at her. "Thank you for your help Mrs. Hudson, you have been very kind." Then he shut the door in her face and headed back to his room before she could protest.

Despite Sherlock's rude actions, Mrs. Hudson returned the next day. "Good evening, Sherlock." She said, as Sherlock allowed her into the sitting room. "How was school?" she asked him. "Bad." Mrs. Hudson frowned, "And why is that?" Sherlock shrugged. "Have you been eating?" she inquired. Sherlock shook his head. "Why not?"

"it's not my fault." Sherlock said, "Every time I eat, it doesn't stay down, so I just stopped trying." Mrs. Hudson frowned. "Aren't you hungry?"

"Yes…" Sherlock mumbled. "What am I going to do with you, Sherlock?" she sighed.

Mycroft returned home the following day in a foul mood. His 'agents' had failed to receive the information he required. "Those bloody fools!" he shouted, bursting into the room. Sherlock stood beside the sofa, making snarky comments as often as he possibly could as Mycroft continued his rant. "How could they?!" Mycroft shouted, "They're all so stupid!"

"Oh stop being so petty, Mycrotch." Sherlock groaned. Mycroft stood staring at him. "You know what? I'm not even offended by you any more."

Well, then I'd better try harder." Sherlock said, mingling over to his room and picking up his violin. He played for hours, making up new songs and remembering old ones. He felt generally better, since that morning when Mrs. Hudson made him tea and toast and he could actually eat it. He felt slightly less lightheaded and tired; his thoughts flowed at a decent pace as well, but he desperately wanted something to work on. He tried composing, but it was boring and he had done it a hundred times before. It wasn't until that moment that Sherlock noticed how often he locked himself up in his room. He always came home and just sat. So he got up out of his chair, pulled on his only, rather ragged looking, stole Mycroft's card from his wallet, and headed out the door, wishing for a scarf.

He strolled down the road, observing, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He made an effort not to think out loud, since that usually didn't go over well with other people. He stopped at one of the cafes on the road and bought an earl grey and a scone, but ended up pushing away the scone after several bites and just sipping his tea. He curled up in his awful jacket and just watched things. Eventually, he took out his pocket notebook and began to make notes on the things he saw. He looked up for only a moment and spotted someone familiar. She was a brown haired, skinny girl with flushed cheeks, wearing a pink button down tucked into a tweed pencil skirt, all underneath a knee length trench coat that didn't fit her very well.

Her name was Irene Adler. Why did he know that? He didn't recall ever talking to her. She must have recognised him too because she came over and sat across from him after buying a coffee. "What're you doing here?" she asked, clearly excited to see him. "Getting out of the house." He responded. "You? Getting out of the house? Surprise." She spoke to him as if she knew him very well. "You know me quite well. I've never spoken to you." Irene blushed. "Er… well… I've seen you around."

"You mean followed me in the hallways, stood up for my name, told off other students for my sake?"

"Yeah…" she mumbled. Then she took the palm sized notebook out of his hand and scribbled upon it, before leaving abruptly. Sherlock turned the book back around and read it quickly before returning it to his pocket. All it said was "If you ever need someone to talk to, just call me - Irene" along with a phone number in curly handwriting. He left the café and headed into a shop several blocks away. He entered and wandered about the store for several minutes, searching for a good jacket. He had no luck until he reached the back corner of the shop and there, hanging on the rack was a long, dark grey coat with buttons and a big collar. He headed straight towards it and checked the price tag and slipped it on. It was a little large, but he figured he'd grow into it. He took it off and went to the register, handing the cashier Mycroft's card. The moment the coat was purchased he took off his ugly old one and put on the new one, popping the collar to see how it looked, then left the shop with his head held high. He returned the card to Mycroft's pocketbook and waited for him to notice it had been gone.

The week after that it began to grow colder, and Sherlock purchased a stone blue scarf to go along with his coat, using Mycroft's card yet again, considering he still hadn't noticed the random 1,480-something pound purchase that had been made on it. Mrs. Hudson had been checking in on him daily and he discovered that she was actually someone that _cared _about him. He definitely didn't have friends that cared, and Mycroft surely didn't, but Mrs. Hudson seemed to constantly make sure that Sherlock was happy and healthy, although he was neither. However, overall, he was doing much better. In fact, he had even made an acquaintance with one of the boys from school.

His name was John Watson. He caught Sherlock's eye the other day, in third period biology. He had never been in the class before, and it was the most advanced course at the school. It was presentation day too, and he went right up to the front of the classroom and gave the best, most factual presentation Sherlock had heard anyone but himself give that year. Everyone else in the class was annoyed by his "smart-ass" tone, but Sherlock absolutely loved it. He had to talk to him. At lunch, instead of hiding away or escaping to a book store, he sat down at the small, empty table across from John and simply stared at him. "Um, hi." Said the blonde haired boy, giving Sherlock a questioning look. "Oh, weren't you in my advanced bio class, when they all gave me dirty looks?"

Sherlock nodded. "I like your coat." Said John. Sherlock just stared at him. "Are you alright?" John asked. Sherlock stared and stared at him, reading everything he could about him. Then a thought struck him. He wanted John to be his friend. "Yeah, fine." Sherlock whispered. No, that was ridiculous. He would never be his _friend_. Who would? No one. "Well, I'm new, so I don't really know many people and I was…"

"How long were you in India?"

John froze. "I… I'm sorry?"

"India." Said Sherlock, "You're English, but you've spent the last… three years of your life in India?"

John was still frozen in place, staring at Sherlock with a shocked look. "Who told you that?" he asked, his voice low. "No one." Sherlock shrugged, "It's obvious."

"Obvious how…?"

Sherlock smirked, "The same way it's obvious that you're seventeen, studying to be a surgeon, and that your father was shot down in combat."

John looked downright scared. "I don't know who you are," he said, "and I don't know where you got your information, but I think I've had enough." He began to rise from the table.

"Your tan line at your collar, where you have your notes stored, and the way you eat. All _scream_ time in India. A long time. Time enough to become accustomed. Your schedule, three courses; anatomy, advanced biology, medicine. Doctor, or surgeon. Assuming surgeon, because of your steady hands. You've practiced that, have you not? And your age, do I have to explain that one?"

John looked stunned. "That… That's… How do you do that?!"

"It just happens." Sherlock mumbled. John beamed, and held out a hand for Sherlock to shake. "John Watson." He said, "Oh, but I'll bet you already knew that too." Sherlock nodded, then shook his hand, mumbling "Sherlock Holmes." And looking up at him. John smiled, "Well, I'll be seeing you around then." Then waved, and walked away. Sherlock stared at where he had gone. John was actually _nice _to him. He said he would _see him again_.

For once in his life, Sherlock Holmes had the beginning of a friend.


End file.
